Why not take a little time for yourself – enjoy some steaming hot cocoa and a short story to warm your heart?

Our own Zen writer, Miki Markovich, is offering the Kindle edition of her new holiday novella for free. “Christmas on I-80” is about love, a holiday road trip and the quest for love and acceptance.

Christmas should be a time for celebration, indulgent foods, bubbly and all things that sparkle, yet, Liz and Izzy find themselves leaving their festive home in the Pacific Northwest to see family down south.

On their journey, the couple meets hitchhikers running from the law who teach them a little bit about family and reconnect with Liz’s older neighbor who gives them the gift of unconditional love. Ready for adventure?

Download it now.

The post ‘Christmas on I-80:’ A holiday tale for you first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I was 23 when I died. It was brief but impactful.

Even in college, I knew something was wrong, but chose not to share. I was on my own with no parental figures to speak of, no insurance and no idea what to do: I didn’t see the point in voicing my concerns. However, it wasn’t long before one of my professors noticed my trouble breathing and occasional black outs when my heart would speed up, then dramatically pause.

Although my instructor and employer Professor Holmes offered to pay for a doctor’s visit, I declined as I had a feeling things were going to get expensive fast. Boy did they. I promised him that as soon as I graduated, found a job and received a shiny health insurance card, I would make my way to the doctor.

I started with a visit to a general practitioner in Memphis, Tenn. After conducting an initial examination, he told me that there wasn’t anything wrong with my heart. He went on to say that my problem was that I was a woman, therefore BELIEVED I had a heart condition. After an awkward back-and-forth, he finally relented saying that he would send me to a specialist for testing, if I would just “shut up.” Score!

Later that week, I received a call at work. The woman on the line asked me to report to the doctor’s office immediately. I explained that because the apartment complex I worked for was short staffed that week, I was currently running a large maintenance department and wouldn’t be able to get away. I insisted they tell me on the phone. To my surprise, the doctor came on the line and said I had some problematic heart defects and an aneurysm and was, in fact, dying. I listened for a few seconds and then, even though the doctor was still talking, slowly lowered the phone until the handset was resting back in its cradle. I then laid my head on the desk and began to cry at the reality of it all.

…

I soon drove to Mississippi to meet with one of the country’s top cardiologists. Although initial testing indicated I had no more than three years to live in my current condition, the doctor said he wanted to conduct one more test before scheduling my open-heart surgery — a heart catheterization. I agreed and we set the date for later that week.

My loving and eccentric grandmother drove me to the hospital that very early morning. Her driving 35 mph on city expressways made me thankful just to get to the hospital in one piece amid the raucous honking and enthusiastic hand gestures.

Lying on the chilly metal bed in the overly bright room filled with sterile and confusing equipment was terrifying. As the procedure began, I felt the tubing snake and stretch its way through my veins from my crotch up to my heart; the pain was excruciating. My back arched in an unnatural form as I shrieked in pain, something reminiscent of a graphic exorcism movie. After the test was complete, I was left to rest.

Suddenly, I was hot, like burst-into-flames or melt-like-a-wax-voodoo doll hot. Machines began beeping, bells started ringing and alarms started sounding as I went into shock. Next I went blind, then I became deaf. Finally, I died.

I woke up to a crowd of bustling professionals around me. After the room cleared, I was told it was time to schedule my open-heart surgery. I was hesitant. Until that point, I had naively believed that doctors could cure anything with a pill or simple procedure. However, I now had a different point of reference than the books and movies I devoured with their canned happy endings. The holidays were fast approaching and I didn’t want to miss them due to being dead and all, so I pressed for a date into the New Year.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were wonderfully imperfect and festive. When January 3rd came around, I threw myself into enjoying the best possible potential last meal. Don’t judge me, but with my young and unrefined palate, I took the task seriously. I had shrimp cocktail, a chili cheese coney, onion rings, Cocoa Puffs, cherry limeade, scrambled eggs with chili and so much more. I ate, watched some favorite shows, wrote a will and visited with friends.

The next morning I reported for surgery. I’d love to say it went smoothly, however I woke up paralyzed during the procedure. Dying and waking probably sounds awful, but truthfully, the experience gave me a great gift at a very young age: the freedom to live life unapologetically on my terms. I’d like to think I would have gotten to this place on my own eventually, but what a wonderful crash course.

Dying will change an attitude; it changed my perspective on everything. I learned is that it’s OK to be me: eccentric, shy, nerdy and too idealistic for real life. I learned it’s absolutely acceptable to take a chance on love and to speak my mind, whether it be to a friend, co-worker or the U.S. Attorney General. Sure, my personality and attitude aren’t always embraced by others — it can definitely prove challenging. But this is my life and, as far as I know, it’s the only one I have. No day is guaranteed and I want to drink in every moment with verve and gusto. No matter if you’ve momentarily met your maker or have lived a healthy life without so much as a sneeze, embrace your true self, celebrate your strengths, share your foibles and enjoy everything that make you, well, you. Your authentic self is amazing and enough — take my word for it.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post That time I died first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I woke up crying this morning. I was dreaming that my grandmother, the only family member I’ve ever really known, was dying. When she passed in my dream, I awoke only to remember that she was really gone.

My relationship with Grandma-ma was a constant dichotomy: deep and shallow, straightforward and masked, flowing and complex. From the time I first gained awareness until the day she died, my world revolved around this woman with hair the color of a steady flame, a steely spine and an unmatched determination.

My grandmother wasn’t fond of children, but she loved me fiercely. To this day, I attribute any of my diva-like tastes to this redheaded force of nature, be it my love of expensive chocolate, my appreciation for all things that sparkle or my desire to have things just so. For instance, when I was about seven, she took me on a working vacation with her to Padre Island. When we escaped the muggy heat of the parking lot, entering the air conditioned oasis, the woman behind the counter asked if we wanted a pool or ocean view. My grandmother deferred to me as I explained that I wanted both. And that’s exactly what I got.

More than a decade later, after leaving for a college located in the Mid West, I received a call a month or so into my first semester. Grandma-ma told me she had moved to Memphis, promptly giving me her new address and phone number. Confused as to when this was decided, much less when it had actually transpired, she informed me that she wanted to be as close to my college as possible without getting too cold. Apparently Memphis was as far north as she could handle. I have to admit, there’s more than a bit of beauty to that.

Having moved around so often and having disowned most of her own family, she didn’t have a lot of consistent people in her life. Because of this, I always tried to fill the void. When I was in high school and college, I had my friends mail her cards and call her for special occasions. Later, as a high school teacher, I bribed students with extra credit to make her birthday cards in all shapes and sizes. I planned vacations, provided gifts and even drove 6,000 miles round trip to take her out for dinner at her favorite restaurant for her birthday.

Moving into her seventies, found her moving in with me. I loved having her in the house even as she drove me absolutely crazy waking me up to change light bulbs, telling me I was doing even the simplest tasks incorrectly and moving her furniture into every single room of my house. However, after just a year or two, she decided that Missouri was entirely too snowy of a state to live and that she could make better money back in a “real city” down south anyway.

When she return to Tennessee, things soon became chaotic. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the staggering pain of a journey through the jungle of dementia. I should have recognized the warning signs years before, but much like me, Grandma-ma had always been more than a tad on the eccentric side. Fiercely independent and self-sufficient, she always insisted she was fine. After my move to the West Coast, we continued to talk every week, but saw each other only a few times a year. It took a call from a manager at her 55-plus community to finally bring the message home. My grandmother could no longer live on her own.

After finding an apartment for her in an assisted living building with a friendly staff, my partner, her nephew, a few friends and I headed south to get her packed up and ready to roll to the Pacific Northwest. The road trip back was quite the challenge as dementia descended, she occasionally wandered away and became more difficult, threatening to stab the nephew and telling me I didn’t “give a shit” about her – harsh words from a woman I had never heard curse.

Although I thought I had been trying to convince her that everything was okay, I realize now I was actually trying to convince myself that anyone could get lost while walking a dog or forget to turn off a burner. At her new physician’s office, the word Alzheimer’s hung bleakly in the air. I struggled to remain conscious as blackness clouded my vision and bile ascended to my throat. I looked to my grandmother, my family, my rock and only saw fear clouding those crystal blue eyes – something I had never seen before.

Although I tried to fill in the blank spaces and take care of her basic needs, it soon became obvious we both needed help to stay mentally and physically sound. Caregivers were soon scheduled to assist with her medication and help clean up, so she and I could focus on some of the more fun aspects of our relationship, such as dinners out or catching up on shared shows. Simple interactions became more difficult as she often yelled and servers and no longer understood what a theater was or how it worked. Even worse, one of her caregivers convinced her I was a “monster” since I was gay. Although I’m sure Grandma-ma knew before, when confronted with the news, she was easily convinced by this manipulative teen to revoke my power of attorney and disown me. I told her I refused to go and whether she disowned me or not, I was family and would be right where I belonged — by her side. It took a while, but eventually, she came around and we started fresh, with all of our cards on the table.

After more frequent trips to the hospital, I was told it was time to move her into memory care. After a lot of research, bluffing and a few shenanigans, I was able to get her admitted to the best one in the area. Every night I brought her dinner as she refused to eat the plain food they served. Each evening I’d sit by her side protecting her from one of the larger, more colorful residents who, when not having her hands taped inside oven mitts, hovered over the smaller residents with a fork and spoon ready to dip into their plates.

It was obvious the end was near even before the cancer diagnoses. I began to spend nights on a cot scooted against her bed. The all-night shuffling about of the nocturnal residents became my new normal, and I even began to pick up on their language, which simply seemed like gibberish just the month before.

The cancer quickly ate away at her, leaving a shell of the strongest woman I’d ever known behind. Although the doctors told me she no longer knew I was present, I played her favorite songs, watched our favorite movie (“The Gremlins”) on repeat and sang “You are My Sunshine” hundreds of times in a row. I held her hand, thankful that she still existed, thankful for her every breath.

She hung on longer than the medical professionals thought possible. One of the nurses took me aside, asking why I thought she hung on. I told him that she was waiting for someone to arrive and that he would be here any day. I explained that Grandma-ma was my entire family and that my partner wasn’t sure if she could carry the weight of what was to come, so she had called in my ex-husband for reinforcement. Brian had given notice at his job and was driving west from Arkansas. And, within 20 minutes of his arrival, I felt the air pressure in the room change; I saw her eyes, previously rolled back in her head for days on end focus on my face. Although she had lost muscle function at least a week before, her previously unhinged jaw squared up as a studious crease in her forehead appeared. I looked into her blue eyes one last time and told her everything in my heart.

“I love you Grandma-ma. I have always loved you with everything that I am. I don’t how I’m going to make it without you, but I will. Danielle and Brian are here to help me at I’m going to be okay. You raised me to be a strong woman and I am. You need to take care of yourself now. You can go. I’ll be okay. I promise.” She gave me one more brow furor as if to ask, “Are you sure.” I hugged her and kissed her, and just like that she was gone.

Until the moment she passed, I didn’t realize she was the only person in the world who knew me from childhood on. I also didn’t realize that my entire life had truly revolved around her. I felt empty, without purpose. It took a lot soul-searching and tremendous work to truly feel alive again. I still miss her each and every day, picking up the phone to call her when I’m sad, celebrating or scared. But, I am forever grateful I was with her through this journey and that at the end of it all, together we found clarity and understanding.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post A fierce love transcends death first appeared on Lesbian.com.

In my early twenties, I went to work for the mob. OK, I didn’t know I was applying for a summer job with the mob at the time, but I did know I wanted to investigate my dark side.

Growing up, I was always the good kid. I was typically a straight A student even though I attended more than 30 schools in 13 states by high school graduation. I never drank, I didn’t smoke and I wasn’t big on breaking rules, any rules. I began to wonder if I was born this boring, book loving, goody two shoes or if I was merely rebelling in a household full of violent drug users and criminals. I decided I needed to learn how much like my mother I truly was.

I applied to be a cocktail waitress at a rather rough and tumble strip club. You know, the kind found in industrial parks near major airports. My interview mostly consisted of my turning slowly around several times so the hiring manager could see me from every angle. Hired on the spot, I was given a handful of cloth as a uniform.

From the start, the place kept me hopping as I waitressed full time and learned the ends and outs of a more nocturnal lifestyle. Because there were two factions of organized crime looking to take control of the city, strange things happened at the club from time to time — a body found in the back trash can or a car bomb going off in the parking lot. One day the place was set on fire during my shift. I’m sure we were a sight to see as the staff ran outside in all manners of undress. Counting my tips as we waited for the fire department, I found I had already made close to $200 and was happy to call it an early night.

At closing time on more routine nights, the deejay would play “Happy Trails” to shoo away the customers. Every night, I gave him a fiver to play one more song: “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crows. As I scrubbed tables and polished bars, I thought about my mother, digging deep to see how far this apple really did fall from the tree.

As the weeks turned into months, I took on other roles. I filled in as bartender and even occasionally held the keys to the safe and the gun when an emergency called the leaders away — always a terrifying time. As I became more trusted and more involved, some interesting job offers where tossed my way. For instance, I could drive an associate to Nashville and back, a rather short trip for $500 and an allowance for a ball gown and high-end hotel room.

Knowing how I felt about killing people, they stipulated the associate would be merely sending a message on that particular trip. When I politely declined, I was told they were simply offering my additional jobs to help me earn enough money for the following college semester; they wanted to see me succeed — I believed them. They talked about a future when I might be hired by the organization as a teacher, to home school their children. Although truly flattered and offered a generous salary, I turned down this opportunity as well, explaining that as fond as I was of many of them, I didn’t want to get so far in that I could no longer find my own way out. At this point, I was doing a rather graceful dance on a very fine line.

When the anniversary of my mother trying to kill me came along, I arrived at work to find a handwritten letter from someone near the top. It was beautifully written, absolutely uplifting and even life affirming. I was so touched by the words and emotion displayed in this note, I still have it tucked in my “important papers” file.

I worked alongside these people for years. They invited me to blues concerts in smoky venues and to dinners in their homes. I, in turn, invited them to picnics in the park and breakfast at well-lit venues full of everyday people.

So what about that dark side I feared laid dormant? What I found is that I was staying true to myself all along. In fact, from what they told me, it seems I even shined a little light in some dark, dank corners of their world.

Sometimes we have to be daring to transform. Other times, it takes courage just to remain the same, embracing our authentic selves and becoming comfortable in our skin. Although I may never recommend my path to others, I am forever grateful for this beautiful, imperfect journey.
What channels have you used for self-discovery? I’d love to hear!

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post My summer job with the mob first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Shortly after my mother tried to kill me, I headed to Clearwater, Florida, to spend time with my grandmother. She was living in a rent-by-the-week type place called the Orange and I loved it there. Most days, I went to work with her, making cold calls from small sweatshop of a call center selling carpet cleaning services for a company I’d never heard of and am not sure actually existed. Each morning, I dressed for work, I donned a bathing suit under my business attire, not only because it helped me feel closer to my authentic self, but also because it made jumping straight into the motel/apartment pool after work beautifully efficient.

In between racing across nine lanes of traffic to get a daily Big Gulp to quench my thirst brought on by the southern sun, I started bonding with some of the longer-term residents. Some are still friends, some I never want to see again and one I’m afraid I never will.

I met a young girl named Brandy I endearingly dubbed Blondie. Looking older than her 11 years with long tan legs and hair the color of sunlight, I took her under my wing. It seemed I spent my evenings at the pool constantly shooing away muscle-bound men in their 20s, 30s or even older. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking as they approached her, overtly flirtatious to downright crude. I would place myself in front of her, reminding these meatheads that she was just child, not to mention jailbait for their perverted asses.

Although she and I spent a tremendous amount of time together, I didn’t see much of her father. He spent his days in their efficiency, I assumed drinking. I never wondered how he earned their rent money. Plenty of people who lived at the Orange had no visible means of support. Even though it was what it was, the days continued to spill into each other.

Upon occasion, Blondie and her father would get locked out of their place by management and move into their car for a bit, parking right there in the lot. A relatively regular occurrence, I’d convince my grandmother to allow Blondie to bunk with us anytime the situation got dire, which was often.

It’s amazing what can happen on “just another typical day.” We were in the studio apartment watching a Love and Rockets video on MTV. The air conditioner was hissing, blowing cool air into the small space when there was a knock at the door. I turned down the TV and opened the door, squinting into the sunlight while trying to shield myself from the oppressive heat. I don’t remember exactly who was there, the police, children’s services? They were dressed in stifling looking clothes as they informed us that Brandy’s father had died in his car sometime during the night. When they announced they were there to take her into protective custody, she ran to the back, locking herself in our bathroom. These official-looking folks tried to calm her through the door, but her response was guttural and heart wrenching.

She wouldn’t budge from the locked room, so I asked them if they would step out while I talked to her. I don’t remember what I said exactly, something about it all going to be OK — and I believed it. I told her I would do everything I could to help, yet I left for the Midwest not too long after to complete my senior year of high school in a state that didn’t require as many credits as Florida. A short time into my freshman year at the private Christian college, I received a phone call from an old friend telling me that Blondie was officially missing, sold into some underground slavery ring.

Being one who finds solace in action, I grabbed a sack of change, went to my resident hall’s payphone and dialed the Clearwater police department. Eventually, I was put in touch with Detective Pulio who asked about my relationship and interest in this young girl and her well-being. I explained that as odd as it sounded, Brandy was like a daughter to me and I wanted to help. He responded by telling me there wasn’t a lot I could do since I wasn’t blood related, but it just so happened that he knew someone at the Missing Children’s Help Center and perhaps I could work with them. I slide another handful of quarters into the payphone and was quickly connected with to his friend. She was amazing and was more concerned about helping exploited children than getting tangled in a bunch of red tape. She warned me it might be difficult, but if we worked together, maybe we could get something done.

I soon learned that Brandy’s addict mother wasn’t concerned about her safe return, as she refused to work with the police or center. Her apathy just lent me strength as I forged forward doing every single thing Detective Pulio and his contact advised. It wasn’t long before missing child posters of my Brandy were plastered across the entire country. However, the true game changer came in a 30-second segment on “America’s Most Wanted” as missing child of the week. The night it aired, it seemed everyone on campus was watching. When the show cut to commercial break, my residence hall was flooded with friends and supporters. Although I felt fortunate to have so many wonderful people in my life, the stress, sorrow, hope and attention became too much so I headed to the shower where I was sure people would be hesitant to follow.

The next morning, I attended my early morning Mass Communications class. During lecture, someone slipped in and whispered to the professor. She asked me to join her in the hall and told me that Detective Pulio had called the college. They had found Brandy, actually within minutes of the segment airing the night before, and were going to let me talk to her that morning. She told me I was excused from class and to go take care of whatever was needed. I was so excited I literally tripped down the stairs in the big auditorium as I grab my books and ran from the building.

I soon learned that during our time in Florida, her dad had been tricking her for money. Sometime after his death, although technically abducted as she was underage, Brandy had gone willingly with a former john. I learned she was now addicted to drugs, a seemingly lost soul. It broke my fucking heart.

I tried to stay in touch, but her number constantly changed and my letters would go unanswered. I’ve not heard from her since and still miss her terribly, trying to find her online from time to time. I miss those seemingly carefree days together, embracing moments on the beach, by the pool or deep in conversation under the sun with the boom box that never got a break. I didn’t know she was having sex with men to support her father and she didn’t know that someone was actively trying to find me to kill me.

According to the Covering House, approximately 300,000 children are at risk of being prostituted in the United States. I regret not doing more. Although I don’t know what I could have done differently as a teen struggling to stay alive and find a way in this world, I still feel an emptiness, a sadness. I believe everyone has a story from the past or perhaps a current struggle. It may be that they don’t want to share, don’t want to burden anyone or can’t imagine a better life for themselves. However, I think it’s important we reach out to ask for help when we need it and give it when we can no matter how seemingly big or small the issue. It’s our future and our children’s future — let’s work together and make it beautiful.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Losing Brandy, summer of fun ends in tragedy first appeared on Lesbian.com.

In August of 1990, I slowly drove my 1980 AMC Concord hundreds of miles north to begin my first year of college. Even though it had only second gear, I loved this car as it had not only provided shelter in the past, it also consistently got me from place to place, albeit slowly.

Excited and scared to begin this new chapter, I followed the signs from Interstate 55 into the small Midwestern town. Finding a parking spot, I initiated the emergency brake and stepped out into the sunny day.

As I looked around, trying to orient myself so I could move on the next task of finding my residence hall, my car started rolling back down the newly discovered College Hill. I reacted quickly, throwing myself behind it, trying to block its descent. While I willed the car back up the hill and back into its proper spot, I started attracting a fair amount of attention.

Tenacious yet absolutely fruitless in my efforts, I was soon joined by three rather large young men. As if this kindness wasn’t enough, after depositing my car onto a flat area, successfully avoiding any further trouble, they then gathered all of my belongings and escorted me to my residence hall. During this entire ordeal, I had yet to say a word, merely turning a vivid red. Only after these college football students deposited my belongings in my room, was able to squeak out some words of gratitude.

Before packing my belongings into the old, brown car that it took a village to park “on the hill,” I had been told that once I arrived on campus everything but my books would be covered by scholarships and loans. With $290 in my pocket, I headed to the administration building to check in and sign my paperwork.

After standing in line for hours, I was told $600 and some change was due immediately. I felt sick. I pulled out my book money and explained that I didn’t have the rest. The woman matter of factly told me to call my parents for the remaining amount. I explained I didn’t have any parents to call. She probed further, asking whom I did have. I could think of no one. People in line behind me started to grumble and I could feel my face flushing with stress and embarrassment.

She said, “Without the money, you can’t start school.” I panicked. Just as I was feeling everything go black and was starting to leave the line, a young man I’d never met stepped up to the counter and told her to put the remaining balance on his credit card. I told him he couldn’t do that. Having heard the entire conversation, he asked what my plan was, and since I had no plan at all, I accepted his kindness.

Even though I had given all of my money to the woman at the desk and no longer had funds for books, I was excited about being in college. Always one of the first to arrive, I’d grab a seat, take out my notebooks and ready myself to soak it all in.

After six or so weeks into the first semester, one of my suite mates asked why she never saw me carrying books to class. Reading the shock on her face as I explained, I told her that it was really OK because I was a meticulous note taker. Sure, it wasn’t an ideal situation, but I was there — I was in college. When she offered to buy my books, I thanked her but turned her down. Although I loved my campus job, I only worked 10 hours per week at minimum wage and knew it was going to take me months to pay back the young man from the admissions fiasco. Being one of the most wonderfully stubborn women I know, she insisted, telling me I could take as long as I needed to repay, that her father had the money and would never even notice the transaction.

It’s funny: I’m friends with her father on Facebook and often wonder if he knows that he had a pivotal role in my academic success. In reality, they all did. I was a poor girl, with a broken down car and a criminal family history. Yet at college, nobody knew or cared where I came from or the condition of my car. We had met at an intersection of self-discovery and faith in others. Only because of my desperation had I accepted the kindness and help of these complete strangers. However, I gained lifelong friendships, faith in humanity and the importance of accepting help when it’s graciously offered. It makes me wonder what would happen if we all suspended judgment not and again and extending a helping hand to the stranger we see in need. And as far as that old, brown car? Well, it taught me a great lesson as well. If you can only move forward, there are no worries about what’s behind you.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post When you move forward, it doesn’t matter what’s behind you first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I stared at my high school guidance counselor wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now. Without a college education, I couldn’t imagine a career path that deviated too far from food service.

Perhaps it was my limited point of reference coming from a long line of career criminals and all. Although I had zero desire to join the family business, I wasn’t fond of picturing a life filled with spilled Cokes and a sore back.

“But I’m in Beta … and I earned a scholarship to Duke in junior high. I swear I’m smart enough,” I told him. Sure, I was failing half my classes, but I was working the midnight shift, attending non-stop band competitions and being stalked. Things were … complicated. I was confident that with a little more sleep, some decent food and a bit of stability, I could excel; however, my guidance counselor was having none of it.

He suggested I take the ASFAB and meet with some military recruiters, quickly dismissing me and sending me on my way. I relented.

Around the same time, I started meeting these short-haired men with perfect posture and big promises, I took the ACT. Not knowing the proper process, I had my scores sent to four colleges without applying to any of them. Thankfully the stars aligned as I literally bumped into a college recruiter in the central atrium. She walked me through the application process and even drove me hundreds of miles to audition for music scholarships.

OK, so I didn’t go to one of my dream colleges. But, by the time I graduated high school, my scholarship to Duke was more like a coupon anyway. Here’s the thing, I know I ended up exactly where I needed to be and with almost every penny paid for my four-year duration. Culver-Stockton College was large enough to offer everything I was looking for, but small enough that I felt safe. For the first time in my short life, I felt like I fit in just for being me.

Sometimes, people might not believe in us or buy into our dreams. And you know what? That’s OK, as long as we don’t buy into their shit as well. Rarely do people regret going after what they truly desire more than they regret staying paralyzed in the status quo.

It’s your life to live. Whatever it is you want to do, at whatever juncture you find yourself, start that journey. It might come out exactly as you dreamed it, or it might turn out even better. Consider heeding the advice of the great Mark Twain: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowline. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post ‘You’re not college material’ first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I was nervous when Officer Terry took me to meet my foster family. As soon as his knock landed on the door, it swung open. Without making any move to cross the threshold, my gaze bypassed my “new mother” and rested squarely on the junior high boy lying on the floor in front of the television. He was the spirited young student I tutored in drumming each week. I didn’t know whether to be excited to know someone at the house or be mortified that the darkness I’d been living would now be known.

Within a couple of weeks of living at the home, this same policeman introduced me to my father and his family in a neighboring town. Although it was an awkward meeting, complete with handshake and business card, he soon asked me to move in with him and his newest family. I was elated — nothing has meant more to me than family. However, two weeks later I was once again sent packing. Picking me up from school, his sister told me the news. She informed me my things were all ready at her house in a town I’d never heard of. Although I was devastated to be thrown away again, I rolled with it. What choice did I have? I was underage and a ward of the state. Things were OK for a while, until my newfound cousin tried to rape me at gunpoint. My uncle arrived in time to save me from another rape, but not in time to make things work. When my aunt returned home that evening, my meager belongings were thrown into the yard and the foster family called.

As soon as I turned 17, I found myself in front of a judge asking for emancipation. He told me my life would be more difficult on my own, but held my ground. I rented a small, single wide trailer with a roommate, worked the midnight shift at a local fast food place, attended school during the day and prepared for band contests sometime in between. It was totally doable until the place burned down during one of my shifts.

I stayed with friends for a few days, then made the official move into my car. Sure, it was a little inconvenient, but I was still thrilled to have a roof and doors that locked.

…

I was startled when Roxie came to me. I had only met my father briefly, so to have one of his ex-wives offer me a place to live was out of my realm of possibility. I asked her if she was aware my mother was her ex-husband’s first wife and that she owed me absolutely nothing. She didn’t know me and she wasn’t even currently married to the stranger who was my father. Her persistence made me apprehensive. I’d rather live in my car until I graduated high school than to believe things were going to be all right only to get tossed out of another home.

Before long, that vivacious wonder had me unloading my meager belongings at her house. She told me I’d be bunking with Heather — my sister. “Sister” was a completely foreign concept to me as was raised as an only child with very few outside connections, much less those of family. I thought this young teen would feel I was taking up space and infringing on her family, but she didn’t. She was nothing short of ALWAYS excited about my being there.

We spent our evenings playing pop music and sing loudly into hairbrushes. I taught her how to make prank calls and she taught me what being big sister was really about. Our younger brother had a room in the back of the house and caused all kinds of wonderful, brotherly ruckuses. He pretended to be a hood ornament on my car and teased us both mercilessly about being afraid of mice. It was all so made-for-TV … normal.

As Christmas neared, I was well aware that I was just some girl off the street and not “real” family to Roxie and her fiance. It was because of that that I was moved to tears Christmas morning to find that not only was I included, but also I was treated equally. The gifts were perfect and extravagant. With twinkling lights, food and festivities, I had never before felt so much a part of a family. It was warm and wonderful.

…

We had spent the day in St. Louis picking out a dress for my upcoming senior prom. Running late, I was stressed about making it back to the house and on time for my 11pm shift. Rushing in through the front door, I headed straight to the bedroom to change into my uniform as Roxie hit the play button on the answering machine. As it kicked on, a man’s voice filled the space with haunting, gory images; he graphically spoke about shooting me in the face and watching my brains and blood spill down the wall. Hearing the threat of this stranger my mother must have convinced to call the house chilled me to the core. More than the being shot, I feared I would now be asked to leave this humble house that had somehow become my home. In my experience, no one wanted a house guest who came with drama or trauma. I looked at Roxie’s face waiting for her to tell me I was just going to have to go.

What I saw in her eyes was indeed rage, not at me but at the caller. She immediately ran outside, quickly spotting a man in a car staring at the small house. She started shouting at him as she ran in his direction. When he turned on the car to pull forward, Roxie made chase. I was flabbergasted.

Sometimes things can seem really bad and they are. But beauty can be born from this darkness. I simply ask that you don’t lose hope. Keep your heart open to unexpected possibilities because you never know where love is going to show up next.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Keep your heart open to unexpected possibilities first appeared on Lesbian.com.

She told me she was going to blow my head off while I slept, and I believed her as she stomped around our apartment with a sawed off shotgun in hand. She had been pacing outside my bedroom for weeks, repeating the phrase as if a favorite mantra. No, I didn’t sleep much that sixteenth year of life.

My mother considered me a “traitor” for moving to Florida with my grandmother earlier in the school year and “unclean” from a recent rape. I had never had sex before the rape and didn’t for years after the incident, yet I was still considered dirty. I avoided telling my mother when it happened because I feared she wouldn’t believe me and because I feared she would. However, a well-meaning friend I eventually confided in told our guidance counselor who then told my mother.

I was immediately “grounded” and locked away in my bedroom. Without being allowed to leave the small, upstairs room, I couldn’t visit the kitchen, only eating when she decided to bring food, or use the bathroom, unless given explicit permission. I wasn’t allowed to nap, read, use hairspray, interact with pets or look out my window.

While my mother was out volunteering for a non-profit in a neighboring town one afternoon, an old family friend came to the door. I found myself peeking from the corner of the window after the second knock landed. What I didn’t expect was being met with direct eye contact. I immediately panicked and ducked down under the window. Quickly realizing damage control was needed, I stood up, begging him never to mention he had seen me. As far as I know, he never did.

I don’t know how long went by, but on August 2, 1988, she once again left to do her charity work. Expecting her to be gone for a couple of hours, I snuck out of my room to eat and shower. I first foraged in the fridge and cabinets for bits she wouldn’t notice missing, eating everything raw as the smell of cooking could alert her to my rule breaking. After eating just enough to stop the hunger pangs, I stripped down, climbed into the shower, letting the hot water pour over my body, momentarily erasing the insanity that had become my existence.

What I didn’t know is that my mother had forgotten something at home, returning to the apartment to fetch it. The ting, ting, ting of the water blocked the sound of the door. I didn’t know she was there until she ripped the curtain back. Enraged, she pulled me out of the small space by my hair and dragged me to my bedroom while punching me repeatedly.

After throwing me on my bed naked, she continued the violent assault. I was vulnerable and terrified. Regressing, I begged her to stop, calling her mommy in a high-pitched, child-like soprano. At some point it all just clicked — I knew that if I stayed passive as I always had, I may not see another day.

Lodging my foot into her mid-section, I launched her off me. I then made a run for the stairwell, but she grabbed me by the throat, choking me while pounding my head into the wall over and over and over again. At some point, her aim veered left, and I fell backwards, tumbling down the steps. Hitting the floor on my back, I had a clear view of her storming down the stairs as fast as her legs allow.

In a frenzy, I heaved myself up and ran to the front door, pausing, momentarily wondering which would be worse, running across town naked or dying at the hands of my mother. My fingers slid and slipped around the knob, seeming an eternity before connecting properly. It finally swung open and I ran into the blinding August sun, the great unknown.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover from the emotional turmoil stemming from this day so many years ago. But, given the situation, I know it was the best thing that could have happened. Even with all the drugs, violence and men I was raised around, I always thought my mother was the most beautiful, intelligent woman living. I constantly tried to win her love and respect only to look into her eyes to see disappointment or worse, indifference.

No matter how much she emotionally and physically abused me I would have never left for anything less than this incredible act of violence.

Of course, the next several years were extremely difficult as I moved into foster care, got emancipated and lived life under police protection. But, soon enough I was free: free to find myself, explore my own interests, pursue my own future and walk in the sunshine. Sometimes what seems like the most horrific scenario possible can actually be a desperately needed solution.

Although many of us are quick to judge our circumstances as good or bad, it is still mere perception. No matter the difficulty or the challenge, keeping an open mind and a hopeful heart can do wonders.

Who knows what light may be born from the darkness.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Even the darkest night ends at dawn first appeared on Lesbian.com.

What high school sophomore isn’t riddled with plenty of self-doubt and introspective moments, right? Like most awkward teens of around that age, I worried about my grades, my weight and my future. I developed an eating disorder, second-guessed everything and did the best I could with the tools that I had. I learned a lot that year — the basics of biology, a bit of advanced Algebra and that some people are going to make flash judgments without a fuck given.

My mother smoked pot as long as I can remember. I didn’t like being around it, but I didn’t resent it like I did her cocaine addiction or her use of the word piss. Sometime during my tenth-grade year she decided to grow a private stash right there in our apartment. She occasionally placed her plant in various windows in order to catch the sun. At some point, one of the neighbors must have called the police, resulting in an in-person visit from the local sheriff himself.

He walked in like he owned the place, gave me a stern look and asked where my bedroom was. It appeared that he had already decided I was the culprit since I was the teenager. He climbed the stairs to my room, checked the windowsills and my closet. He poked around my bed and dresser drawers finding nothing of interest. I was frustrated by his prejudgment.

After taking a look around my room twice, flashing me that look again and exchanging words with my mother, he was on his way. If he had for a moment considered the possibility that my mother was the grower, he may have searched additional rooms; such as, the nearby bathroom where he would have seen a plant, stretched tall in the open windowsill. Although I later grew to love his staff, especially a member who later saved my life, I unfortunately never became a fan of his.

Months later a similar incident occurred. I don’t remember what triggered the violence, if I rolled my eyes, didn’t wash a dish properly or sinned in some other small way. What I do remember is watching my mother fly into an instant rage. First, there was just screaming and slapping, but soon came the punching and scratching. In her crazed state, she showed no signs of stopping. I had been feeling the momentum, the resentment and the hate building for weeks. And, that day, I was genuinely and completely terrified of her.

At some point, I decided to run. I easily found a neighboring church where my mother and I had once resided in the basement before moving into our current low-income apartment. Finding the pastor, for the first time ready to ask for help escaping the abuse, I let the story tumble from my mouth. Blood was flowing from the open wounds on my arms and hair still fell from my head in chunks as I talked animatedly, head thrashing and hands flying, my minute Italian heritage showing.

However, as soon as my mother arrived, she turned on her charm and combined it with a flawless it’s-tough-to-be-a-mom routine. She explained to the pastor that I was on a new medication and it had driven me to attack myself. The thing is, I wasn’t on a new medication. In fact, I had never been on any sort of medication. Our family didn’t really even go to doctors, police or anyone “official.” The prescription for a cold was hot toddies, while ear infections called for half onions affixed to my head, an oddly painful process.

I held my breath as I waited to see what he would do. Watching his eyes go from one of us to the other, I saw the resignation cloud his expression. I know he believed me as I received an apology letter from him five years later, but at that moment, he sent me home with my mother. I felt hopeless, empty and scared. I resolved myself to survive minute by minute, which is exactly what I did as I could feel something bigger coming. Little did I know she would soon try to kill me.

Here’s the thing. Sometimes, people are going to have preconceived notions about us for a host of obscure, senseless reasons: we’re teens or we’re elderly; we’re gay or we’re straight; we’re black or we’re white; we’re formally educated or we’re not. But at the end of the day, what they think or how they act doesn’t matter. It’s up to us to know our inner truth and to do everything in our power to honor it.

Sure, nonsense is going to happen and bullshit may prevail for a while. But remember this, there’s a lot of peace that comes from living your life as you see fit and righting the wrongs you can with the resources you have. Whatever your challenges, however you feel judged, do what you can to surround yourself with believers, cheerleaders and positive hooray-sayers. Keep on your path, doing your thing and sparkle on, baby, sparkle on.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Surround yourself with cheerleaders and sparkle on first appeared on Lesbian.com.